Cedo Nulli
by Alabastersky
Summary: Harry develops new powers as a result of his confrontation with Voldemort at the end of 5th year. AU sixth year fic, centered around a HarryTom romance. Strange. R
1. Default Chapter

This time, just like all the others, Harry Potter didn't realize his mistake until after he'd made it.  
  
This time, just like all the others, he was spared from his own idiocy. At the expensive of others.  
  
As he lay in the hospital bed, drifting in and out of consciousness, he wondered what was wrong with him. He wondered if Sirius felt any pain, and if he would become a ghost. He wondered why he was always so infernally "lucky", why it was destined for him to kill the Dark Lord, and why he couldn't. Why he wouldn't.

* * *

Before he opened his eyes again, Harry checked the room for other occupants. Left of him was the shattered blue of Neville Longbottom's Cruatiatus-wracked frame, and beyond him the cool green of Hermione overlaid with the glaring red of the Imperius. They were recovering. Sirius wouldn't.  
  
To the right of Harry was a window, and an enormous ball of barely contained white power he correctly reasoned was Dumbledore. Then it hit him -- _I can't do...whatever this is_. Even as he thought it however, he continued. He felt the low throb of the castle's magic all over and around him, embracing but not suffocating.  
  
Experimentally, he turned his focus to Dumbledore. Whatever he had expected to happen, it certainly wasn't this. He felt compassion and concern in the energy surrounding the older man, and confusion, and weakness. How strange to feel weakness coming from a man so strong. How... wrong. He reached for his glasses, which he knew would be on the table next to him. He had had enough foggy awakenings. His vision, at least, would be clear.  
  
As soon as Harry opened his eyes, Dumbledore began to speak, but Harry didn't hear him. He was overwhelmed by the comfort and trust vibes Dumbledore sent his way. It made him uncomfortable. _Why would a trustworthy person need to send out trust signals?_ Finally, Dumbledore's voice reached him.  
  
"Because, Harry, there is no time to properly gain trust. You have to trust me now, if we are to have any chance at stopping Voldemort," Dumbledore said in answer to his unasked question.  
  
The thought of the Headmaster reading his mind was more than a little disconcerting to Harry. "I have always trusted _you_, Headmaster," Harry said very coldly. _Where did that come from?_ he thought.  
  
Dumbledore seemed more saddened then offended when he answered, "And I have trusted you, though it may not seem so. Now however is not the time to explain. I need you to let me read your mind, so I may find out the fate of Voldemort."  
  
Harry sneered in a manner surprisingly unlike him. "More than you already have, I suppose you mean?"  
  
"Surface thoughts, Harry, and nothing more. Anyone could read them, and without a spell. You yourself could do it with practice," Dumbledore said by was of explanation, before he continued, "But now I need to read your deep thoughts, deeper than emotion or interpretation, to pure memory. It's like a Pensieve, but faster. From them I can ascertain Voldemort's location."  
  
Harry considered for a minute. He would really like to help Dumbledore, and through him the side of light, but he had the strangest feeling he couldn't. His thoughts seemed strangely locked. He didn't know why he knew, by the knew that no one, not even the famed Albus Dumbledore, could enter his head. He was actually rather surprised his surface thoughts could be seen.  
  
"It won't work, Professor, but you may try" He said simply.  
  
Dumbledore winked, and said "I think you underestimate me, my boy." Harry said nothing. He knew he was not underestimating his professor. He didn't know how he knew, something that was happening more and more often since the battle, but he knew he could predict the old man's power almost to a number.  
  
Harry felt that selfsame power now. He heard the soft words Dumbledore whispered, and heard harsher, deeper voices repeating the words in infinite permutations behind the old mans voice. Dumbledore had expanded the power to cover him, and the bed, and was gently prodding Harry's mind. When he closed his eyes, and focused his newest sense on it, it looked white, felt like the sunshine and smelled of lemon. It was immense, and warm, and as it tried to enter his mind soft and featherlike. He felt the attempts redouble, and increase in power twice, and then a third time. Every time it rolled around on the very edge of his mind, like water on glass, and the slipped away. It was, as he predicted, ultimately futile.  
  
Dumbledore suddenly looked very old, and despite the twinkling of his eyes, afraid. "Thank you Ma-_mister_ Pott-," He paused for a second, "Thank you Harry, for allowing me to try. I don't blame you, and I am sure I can locate the Dark Lord some other way." He left.  
  
_That was odd,_ Harry thought, just as Madam Pomfrey came in.  
  
"Drink up, dearie," She said infinitely more cheerful than was, in Harry's opinion, necessary. "Tomorrow it's back home, my boy. How about that then?"  
  
Harry drank his Dreamless Sleep to save having to comment. Madam Pomfrey left, after she was sure he was really asleep. Upstairs, in the Gryffindor dorms, one of Harry's best friends slept fitfully. He was remembering the things the brains had made him see, and nursing the scar on his arms. All this aside, however, he was alive and he was content.  
  
Upstairs in his private study, Dumbledore paced silently. He thought of the first time he had seen that trademark sneer and heard that icy tone. He thought of the first time he learned of wizarding history. He thought, and he paced, and had no idea what tomorrow would bring. He was anything but content.  
  
Morning came too fast for Harry, as was often the case with Dreamless Sleep. Ron and Hermione were sitting next to his bed. Neville was gone. Sirius was gone. _Sirius was gone forever._ He put on his glasses and opened his eyes. Things swam into focus.  
  
"Ronald Weasley, if you do not take your hand out of mine, I will hex you into next week," Harry said. Ron jumped, not realizing Harry had awoken. "Hermione, yours can stay." Hermione giggled and rolled her eyes, torn between teasing and (not so) secret affection.  
  
"You know," Ron said, only half joking, "I'd thump you, but after You-Know- Who it hardly do any good, would it?"  
  
_Kill the spare_. The words popped into Harry's mind unbidden. "Can we talk about something else?"  
  
Ron smiled nervously, "Of course, mate."  
  
Ron talked about Quidditch, and Hermione about grades, and Harry only half listened to both of them. He missed Sirius, but he was glad to have such understanding friends, glad to be alive, and glad he hadn't killed Tom.  
  
_Where did that come from!?,_ Harry thought, uncomfortably. _I have been trying to kill Tom- No, Voldemort- for the last 5 years. He must die.  
_  
_Then so must you_, His own mind whispered back at him.


	2. Revelations at Privet Drive

_It's simply fear of death_, Harry rationalized, when he found himself think of Tom yet again. He'd been doing that a lot recently. Rationalizing, that's is. Well, and thinking of Tom if he wanted to be totally honest.  
  
_Fear of death. How many heroes out live their villain after all? Arthur died. Hector Died. Achilles died. Even Jesus died! Heroes don't out live their usefulness_, Harry thought to himself desolately._ Damn it all, was I supposed to be cheering myself up? Now I have a whole new set of problems! At least if I'm dead, I get to see Sirius.  
_  
Problems were one thing Harry had more than his share of. As soon as he arrived back at Privet drive, he found out Dumbledore had contacted his aunt and uncle. They were mad enough as it was, receiving a letter from 'his kind', so when they read it, they were furious.  
  
Dudley's door, it turned out, had room for half a dozen locks and a cat flap. Who knew? For three weeks Harry hadn't left the smallest room in number four Privet Drive, save to go to the lavatory. He supposed it could be worse. They could be beating him like he deserved.  
  
_They're to afraid for that though, aren't they murderer? If you hadn't killed Cedric, none of this would have happened, If you hadn't killed Sirius, _Harry thought bitterly. He knew he was being irrational. He knew he didn't kill Cedric. They took the cup together, and had both been port-keyed to that graveyard. Wormtail had killed Cedric. Tom had killed Cedric. Tom had killed Sirius.   
  
_No!_ Harry mentally screamed, _Voldemort! Voldemort killed Sirius. Just like he killed my Cedric. I hate Voldemort, and I'm going to kill him!  
_  
His own voice in his head sounded callous when it answered. _Voldemort? Boy, you don't know anyone by that name_, it whispered. It sounded as wise as Dumbledore, but with all the vitriol of Snape. If his throat could affect that voice, he'd be the terror of Hogwarts.  
  
_Terror? Shut up, boy. All you know of terror is Tom, and you love him_, His voice sneered.  
  
_No!_ He was mentally yelling again,_ I don't love Voldemort! And stop calling him Tom! I hate Voldemort! I hate him! I hate him! I hate him!  
_  
His inner terror-voice seemed to sigh. _Yes boy, say it three times, that means it has to be true.  
_  
_He killed my parents!_ Gryffindor bravado, Harry knew. There was no use arguing with himself. He knew what the voice would say before it said it, and his blood ran cold.  
  
_You killed Sirius_. The terror-voice softly asserted, unfailingly. It always lived up to expectations, unlike a certain Boy-Who-Lived.  
  
Harry had no response to that. It just wasn't fair for his taunting, evil side to tell the truth. He pulled the invisibility cloak tighter around himself, and began to rock back and forth, weeping softly. "I hate him," He muttered to himself, again and again. He fell asleep like that, sitting in the middle of his floor cold and invisible, rocking and swearing.

* * *

Somewhere far away, in an unplottable room inside an unplottable castle, Albus Dumbledore paces. The castle, Hogwarts; the room, his study; the man, disturbed. He is again remembering his own school days, and pacing, and wondering if it's too late to save the heir of House Potter. If his hero is mad from grief, who will save the world? He knows he won't live long enough to grow another one. It pains him to think in such terms, but this is war. It doesn't matter how much he likes the boy, he is the hero. He was born, as are all men, to die. Yet he was also born to kill.

"HARRY'S ESCAPED! HARRY'S ESCAPED!" Dudley's voice fills the house, and his jumping up and down rocks it.  
  
_What the hell?_ The very same Harry thinks, blearily. It's certainly not the most pleasant way he's ever woken up, but after a few seconds his head clears. He realizes what the problem is.  
  
Dudley volunteered to bring Harry his food this morning, to have an excuse to taunt him. Unlike his parents, Dudley didn't know Harry was a murderer, so he had only on abnormality to be afraid of. Of course, in his ignorance, he had opened the door and come in, only to find the room conspicuously empty. _He left his Smeltings stick_, Harry noted with wry amusement.  
  
Harry wasn't really gone of course, he was invisible and asleep. Now however, he was awake and alert. He threw his cloak over Hedwig's empty cage (She had disappeared a few days ago, and not yet returned. Probably couldn't stand his company), killing to birds with one stone.  
  
_Still killing things, boy?_ The terror-voice commented silently.  
  
_It's too early for internal conflict_, Harry retorted, _especially with external conflict coming up the stairs._ He wondered briefly if he was mad, for arguing with himself. He dismissed it, and pulled on a shirt. At least now he was awake and alert. He sat down on his bed, and closed his eyes.  
  
He knew his uncle was on the steps (or else Privet drive has come under siege), but he still can't find him with his new sense. Harry wonders why; no explanation seems to fit. At first he thought, _perhaps I can only sense wizards_. That fell through the first time he sensed aunt Petunia walking past. _Maybe only wizards, and immediate family_, he then reasoned. After all, Vernon wasn't his blood kin, and blood was important for this sort of thing, wasn't it?  
  
Of course it was. Where else would the whole Pureblood hype have come from. Blood has to mean something. Unfortunately, he also sensed old Mrs. Figg one day, out 'walking her cats'. _Honestly_, Harry had thought, _that woman is batty._  
  
_Maybe you should kill her_, His terror-voice had said nastily. He had fallen asleep crying a lot this summer.  
  
Harry was snapped from his reverie by the sound of his Uncle banging open his door. _Vernon Dursley_, Harry reflected, _doesn't speak. He roars, bellows, scream, shout, and yells, but he doesn't speak_. Later, much later, Harry Potter would look back on that moment, and realize it was when he snapped.  
  
When he arrived, that's just what Vernon did: growl, yell and bluster. Harry just sat there on his bed, unable to bring himself to care, or even listen. He felt so empty. _Vernon doesn't matter. Nor does his wrath. Privet Drive doesn't matter. Little Whinging, Surrey, and England, none of it matters. Scotland doesn't matter, Hogwarts doesn't matter, Albus-fucking- Dumbledore doesn't matter. Nothing in this whole bloody world matters.  
_  
And that's when Vernon hit him.


	3. Sunshine and smiles

_Yes!_ Harry's mind sung out, _Yes! Hit me again!_ But Vernon was already leaving, Dudley's Smeltings stick in hand. Harry couldn't stand it. Vernon couldn't leave! Vernon had to punish him, beat him so he could be forgiven! Harry had half a mind to stand up…

_To stand up and what? Rush Vernon?_ Harry might be a glutton for punishment, but he wasn't suicidal, and rushing Vernon Dursley was nothing if not suicidal. But Vernon had to hit him again! Had to!

"Vernon," Harry heard his own voice say. It sounded different outside his head, deeper. He wondered vaguely what he was planning, and why he hadn't called him 'Uncle Vernon', and why his voice sounded odd. Then Dursley turned around, and Harry knew.

Vernon Dursley snarled, and whirled around. He raised the stick above his porky head, and started to yell. That's when Harry did it. He cleared his throat, closed his eyes slightly, and gobbed the blood right in Vernon's face. Then, he stood up off of his bed, and waited for the next blow to hit.

He wasn't disappointed. Vernon roared like a lion with a toothache, and swung the stick down and hard. The first blow caught Harry just below the temple, and his vision blurred with red. He staggered forward, determined not to pass out. Through the red cloud blurring his vision, Harry saw the next blow coming, and he leaned away from it.

The tip of the stick caught Harry on the bridge of the nose, and although it didn't break, tears sought Harry's eyes. The light of a thousand suns burned of the red fog, and Harry's vision was clear again. Harry staggered forward again.

This time, Vernon's oversized fist sailed over Harry's shoulder, not connecting. "You've got to hit me!" Harry bellowed. Suddenly Hagrid's words came back to him, "Dry up Dursley, you great prune!" Vernon turned as purple. _He's going asphyxiate before he's finished beating me, _Harry thought dispassionately. He was beyond caring again. It had all stopped mattering.

Vernon how ever, was just getting started. Harry felt a delightful sting as the stick caught in the ribs, and the again on the shoulder. Harry ducked slightly, so the next fist could land on his jaw.

It was an elegant dance, all around Dudley's old room. Vernon, the bull, roared, and punched and threw things if they got in his way; Harry, the matador, danced and spun like he was on the ballet, fielding blows with his head and shoulders. Vernon was determined to beat the insolent unnaturalness from the boy, and Harry was determined to remain conscious.

Eventually, the dance slowed and finally stopped. Vernon stood there, exhausted and baffled by the boys resiliency. Harry swayed precariously, exhausted, in agony, and determined to come out on top.

"Have you forgotten I'm a murderer, Vernon? Do you really think that was a good idea?" He said in the nearest approximation of the terror-voice he could manage. Through his mangled lips it sounded thick, and petulant.

Vernon didn't even bother to ball his fist. His palm hit Harry square in the nose, and Harry felt it give. Small chunks of bone cut through the cartilage, and the blood began to pour. Harry lost consciousness before he hit the floor.

* * *

It was nearly eight o'clock at Hogwarts, and Albus Dumbledore was content. In the last two hours he had eaten an exquisite dinner courtesy of the house elves, hired a new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, and figured out how he would save his hero. Now, he sat in his personal chambers, sharing a brandy with his thoughts and memories.

The solution to his problem was almost embarrassingly simple. Harry Potter was mourning the loss of yet another person in his life. So, Dumbledore reasoned, he would bring someone else in to fill the gap. That left the question of whom, and that had worked itself out with an owl.

Remus Lupin, marauder, werewolf, unregistered animagus and single best Defense Against Dark Arts teacher had seen in 100 years was returning to Hogwarts. Harry loved him, and since his flight from Hogwarts two years ago, Harry hadn't seen him. Hogwarts had hundreds of unknown rooms, and even more hidden rooms. It was the safest place for the man to be, and had the added bonus of lightening Harry's mood.

Albus closed his eyes and smiled. Everything was working out right. He took another drink of his brandy. Too right. Nothing ever works out that neatly in real life. Albus sighed. Now he remembered why he didn't drink: it made him paranoid. Not that he didn't have reason to be. Only Voldemort had more reason to be paranoid, and he was beginning to doubt that. Still, no use in wasting good brandy. He drained the glass.

Voldemort. That was still a problem. He knew he couldn't kill Voldemort himself. That wasn't the way these things worked, and besides that bloody prophecy forbade it. The boy would have to kill Voldemort, he knew, and the boy could. If only he could get there. He just didn't seem to realize he can't save everyone. He didn't understand that it wasn't his responsibility to fight _every _Death Eater. He couldn't let anyone go.

He had risked his life to drag Diggory's body back. He didn't have the luxury of a body for Sirius. In first year, he had tried to save Quirrell. In second year it was Ginerva Weasely. Third year the child tried -–and succeeded!—to save Lupin, Black, and Snape. He glad of that one, for sure. A dead spy is a bad spy. And yet, the only good spy is a dead spy.

He chuckled. He could always put Harry under Imperius, and command him to attack. Or insert a post-hypnotic suggestion to leave the hostages. He could apparate everyone else away, and leave Harry and Voldemort alone in the middle of a battle field. They could hardly make up. Not at this point.

Albus sighed again. He was thinking like Julius. He would _not_ sink to that level. He would have patience, and things would work themselves out. They always do. Still, someone has to think that way, now that Julius is dead. _This_ thought process was certainly getting him nowhere, so he stood up and put away his dishes. It was approaching nine now, and he really had some work to be doing. There was still a myriad of Ministry forms to fill out, indicating he had found a new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.

He ducked in the backdoor of his office, and sat down at the desk. Along the back wall, between a large sneakoscope and a small arithmancers tablet, a large back quill was writing feverishly. Magical children must be being born all over the country, to have it working at such a rate. Something seemed wrong, but Albus accounted that to the brandy.

A line of green among the white pile of his mail drew his attention. Only official ministry documents came that dark green. He picked up the letter, letting several on top of it fall onto the floor. The parchment was thick under his fingers, and almost as rich as vellum. He turned it over, and the gold ink stood out just as he knew it would.

_To Albus P. W. B. Dumbledore, Headmaster._

_ Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

That's when it hit him. The magical student quill was in the transfiguration office, where it had been since he taught it. That quill was enchanted to write about…

_Harry Potter_, the large Copperplate writing said across the top, _July 29_

_Sanite 8:33:01_

_Sanite 8:33:14_

_Sanite 8:33:56_

_Alohomora 8:34:17_

_Alohomora 8:34:17_

_Alohomora 8:34:17_

_Alohomora 8:34:17_

_Alohomora 8:34:17_

_Alohomora 8:34:17_

_Barbas Desinite 8:41:32_

_Aloho---_

The quill was still scratching. Dumbledore thought quickly, _Harry knows better than to use magic outside of school! Does he want to be expelled?_ No, the spells seemed too ordered to simply be a plea for attention, and thereby expulsion. Therefore: Harry's in trouble. Too tame to be Death Eaters though. Therefore: Harry's in trouble with his aunt and uncle. He won't want to risk using magic on muggles, so he won't stun them.

To Albus, it made perfect sense. If he had slowed down to think about it, he may have come to a different conclusion. However, if he had slowed down to think about, he may have missed saving Harry Potter.

"Six Unlocking Charms at once? What fifth year could do that?" He mumbled, as he prepared to leave.

An old woman, one of the nameless, faceless headmistress of yore, answered him. "You could."

"But the magic was different then."

He knew he couldn't run Severus' lab, or even to Minerva's office. He had no illusions about being an old man. He closed his eyes, and promised himself just as he did every time, that this would be his last. With that, he apparated.

He appeared in Minerva's office first, and after taking a minute to calm himself, informed her off the situation. Half a minute later, she explained it to Severus. Six minutes and a short broom ride later, they apparated from just outside the Hogwarts gates, leaving cat hair and profanity in their wake.

* * *

Half way across England, half an hour or so earlier

_That must have been one hell of a bludger,_ was Harry's first thought upon waking. A few moments later, midway through his second healing spell, Harry's mind caught up with his body. His second thought, consequently, was _Oh shit_. Harry hadn't fallen from his broom; Vernon had beaten him. He was an underage wizard, performing magic both outside of school, and potentially in front of muggles. A quick sweep with his proximity sense, coupled with the jolting of his memory told he was alone. Still, he was lying on the floor in a muggle-infested area performing magic with a – he open one eye tentatively – a pencil.

_In for a penny, in for a pound, _He thought bleakly, and finished the healing spell. The pencil crumpled into dust. Harry sat up, and looked around. It was dark in his room, but he couldn't see the moon. _Half eight, then_. The Dursleys (Petunia and Dudley anyway; he couldn't sense Vernon.) were gone, probably for the night. Their friends in London held an annual party, around this time of year, and the Dursleys often stayed over. Harry sighed, and tried the door.

_Locked. Am I surprised? No, I'm not surprised. Alohomora would be nice right about now. _His wand, however was locked up downstairs with the rest of his belongings. He hadn't even gotten to unpack. He looked around the room again. The pencil was certainly not going to help. There was always the window, but no. Just no.

His mind drifted back to his mysterious new sense. He could sense the power around himself, of course, like he could anyone else. He could even direct it around, and move small objects with it. Yet, every time he tried to use that power it left him exhausted, physically and mentally. Still, it wasn't like he had a better option. Besides, it was so draining anymore.

Harry closed his eyes, and directed his aura onto the locks. Slowly, coaxing and teasing, he got it in and around them. _Now_! He thought, _Unlock! _Nothing happened. _Alohomora! Alohomora! Unlock you rat bastard!_ Harry sighed. This wasn't working.

"So much for Alohomora," he muttered aloud, and started to pull back his power. A quiet shuffle, a muted clunk, and Harry's door swung slowly open. Six locks at once?

Harry wasn't one to question fate. He walked out into the hall of number four Privet drive, and looked around. _Now what? _He wondered. He hadn't actually expected to get out of the room, so he hadn't bothered to plan.

_Well, the Ministry officials should be here to arrest me any minute now. I have probably ten minutes. Might as well have a shower then, _Harry thought, _it's not as if I could run._ He made his way to the bathroom, not bothering to turn on any lights along the way. When he got there, however, he turned on every light, even the ones above the mirror he had never seen the point of.

His reflection shocked him. He looked like Sirius had, just after Azkaban. _Don't think about Sirius! _His hair was long and matted, falling about at his shoulders. His beard – _I have a beard!? –_ was thin, but definitely shaggy. The only difference was the eyes: bright green emeralds, flashing from behind the black mane.

While he was in the shower, his thoughts inevitably turned back to Tom. He thought of the way Tom looked, the way Tom smelled, the way Tom spoke. Not Tom now, but Tom as Harry remembered him from second year. The vicious, brilliant boy of 16, radiating power and possessed of a beauty that Harry couldn't miss, even at twelve. That was the real Tom, in Harry's mind, not that scaly_ thing, _and not the new body he had just built. The real Tom was a Raphaelite angel . Harry wanted him, he wanted to have him, and hug him and….

_No! _Harry's conscious mind cut it, as he toweled himself off. _I do NOT want to kiss Voldemort! _

_No, you want to kiss Tom, _his terror-voice said.

_I don't have time for this! _Harry thought back grumpily. He was rummaging in Vernon's closet for something to wear. He was going to be whisked away to the Ministry before Vernon could return to kill him, he had reasoned, so he might as well look good. He selected a forest green, satin shirt Vernon rarely wore, and felt it shrink to fit him as he buttoned it. He also picked up a pair of black slacks, and while he had to drastically take down the waist, the legs were just the right length. A pair of soft leather shoes and a matching belt round out the outfit.

Harry looked at himself in the mirror, and smiled for the first time in three weeks. He looked different, good. His face, indeed his entire body, had lost that boyish look. It was as if he had somehow squeezed the entirety of puberty into three weeks. His cheeks were higher, and his face was thinner accentuating his eyes. His hair now fell softly on his shoulders, and after a quick beard-be-gone charm he can see the set of his jaw. His nose…well, it would be long and aristocratic, if it wasn't broken sideways. At least there's no pain.

Harry walked downstairs, and swept the house for people. Silent as a grave. _Not that Sirius will ever get a grave_. Harry shuddered. "Harry Potter, my good sir, you deserve a drink," he said aloud, relishing in the sound of his own voice. It was rich, and mellifluous. _It sounds a lot like Lucius Malfoy's_, he thought.

Harry took a brandy snifter down out of the cabinet, and sat it on the table. He had never had a drink before, and didn't what he wanted, or even why he wanted one. He closed his eyes, opened Vernon's liquor cabinet and picked something. _Jose Cuervo, _Harry read. _Sounds good. _He poured himself a liberal amount, as much as he had seen his uncle pour into the snifter. He considered it, and added a bit more. _Aunt Marge size._

Through some miracle, Harry didn't spray his first mouthful. It burned his mouth like fire, and as he forced it down it was like drinking lava. Harry sighed, rolled the small stem in his fingers, and tried again. He got a full mouthful this time, and swallowed. By the third try he didn't ever sputter. _No wonder people like this stuff_, Harry mused, _my mind is moving like quicksilver. _

He wondered why he couldn't help thinking of Tom. He wondered if he liked blokes. He tried to imagine kissing Ron, but it did nothing for him. He pictured himself kissing Hermione, then Ginny, then Cho. None of it stirred even the smallest emotion. Not much did these days.

He imagined kissing Neville, and Seamus, and Dean, and just for a lark, Malfoy. _Draco, _He corrected himself, _if I'm going to be kissing him, I will definitely be on first name terms. _Even still, it did nothing for him. _Maybe it's the fact he's older than me. _Harry imagined kissing Remus. Nothing. _Maybe it's because he's scary. _Severus; nothing. _Maybe it's because he's so powerful. _He imagined himself kissing Albus Dumbledore. Much, much less than nothing. Harry took a huge gulp, as if he had actually just kissed the old man.

_Maybe it's just Tom_, Harry thought. _Oh well, there goes my sex life_. He put his feet up on the table, and began to giggle. After a few seconds, he stopped, and peered suspiciously at the drink. Shagging Voldemort was no laughing matter.

He didn't have long to ponder however, because his proximity sense went off. Two warm bodies had just appeared out on the front lawn. His first instinct was to panic, but something overrode it. _What would Tom do? _He asked himself. He didn't know. _What would Dumbledore do_? He queried. This one he did know.

He took another sip, to clear his throat, and waited for the knock. It was tentative, as if the person behind it had never knocked before and wasn't quite sure how it was done. He smiled to himself, and called up the best voice he could to say, "Do come in Severus, I've been waiting for you."

The silence in that room was deafening. 


	4. Nightdreams

"Do come in Severus, I've been waiting for you."

Well, that was certainly unexpected. Minerva McGonagall arched one eyebrow, and turned toward Severus. He scowled ferociously, as if to say 'don't-ask-me', and smoothed out his collar. He was wearing all black, of course, a turtleneck over slacks. It was a great outfit, but not for the blazing English summer. Muggle clothes were really not his forte. Minerva, in her tartan sundress, opens the door.

Meanwhile, Harry Potter had not moved. He still sat with his feet up on the Dursely's kitchen table, drinking tequila from a brandy snifter, and wondering idly what his next move is. After a seemingly ludicrous amount of time, the door swung open.

Harry took another sip, stood up and strolled into the foyer to greet them. He had taken a few minutes to practice his walk, before he started drinking. It wouldn't do for the hero of the wizarding world to stumble on the way to prison. No, he had to strut. And strut he did, with the sort of precarious balance of the year-old child or overwhelmingly drunk.

"Minnie!" Harry gasped, in faux-shock, "You came to? Enchanted my dear lady, enchanted." Harry giggled, a surprisingly high-pitched sound. Enchanted by a witch? He was the very pinnacle of humour! He dropped into a very Lockhart-esque bow.

Severus snorted. "Enchanted? Drunks more like. Disgusting boy."

Harry smiled as big and wide as he possible could. "Greasy git," he said agreeably. Severus hand strayed toward his wand, but Minerva's voice overrode them.

"Mr. Potter, we have been sent by Professor Dumbledore to remove you from the custody of the abusive muggles," she said formally. She gave him a cursory look over, lingering for a second on his distorted nose. "You are also accused of using six unlocking charms, three healing charms, a beard-be-gone spell," she looked up over the top of the parchment she was now reading from. Harry ran his hand along his now smooth jaw line. "And no less than four inanimate transfigurations. You are to cease performing magic at once, and surrender your wand to-"

Harry cut her off, "Yeah, yeah, Min. Whatever you say. It's just that, well, can we leave now?" Severus raised a single eyebrow and pursed his lips in a perfect mockery of polite inquiry. "I don't think the muggles will be to glad to see me standing here talk to two wizardsh," Harry finished the glass, and seemed to notice their clothes for the first time, "not that you look like wizar- Sheverus, you look utterly deeeevine!" Harry reached out and clapped him on the shoulder.

At least, that was the plan. Severus, after years as a Death Eater, could hardly control his reflexes. He seized Harry's wrist mid-flight and turned. Usually, this action brought a person close enough for him to either strike or intimidate. Usually however, the person wasn't drunk. It sent Harry sprawling.

"Where are your belongings, Mr. Potter?" Minerva said. Harry stood up, pointed vaguely, and mumbled something. "What was that?" Minerva repeated.

"I said my shit is locked away the sodding broom cupboard!" Harry barked morosely. Then he began to laugh again. Broom cupboard! He tried to picture Aunt Petunia flying on a broom. No doubt she'd find a way to fly sidesaddle. His laughter redoubled. "I would have fetched it already, but, well, you know magic and school and all that."

Minerva resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She had broken herself of the childhood habit, but this boy could bring it out of anyone. She went into the next room, and began looking around for a broom closet.

Severus wore a puzzled and unpleasant expression. His mind was working as fast as Harry assumed his was. Why would the boy's family lock his things away in a broom cupboard? They were supposed to revere him. Who didn't want a wizard in the family, after all, especially the famous Harry Potter? Look at his shirt. Satin in this neighbourhood? He was obviously favoured. Severus wondered again if this whole trip wasn't pointless. He tried to convince himself it was, but the boy's nose, so freshly broken, insisted otherwise. Well, one way to find out. "Potter," he said softly, "Why are your belongings lock away in a broom cupboard?"

Harry's smile widened, but his eyes darkened. "Oh Sheverus, didn't anybody tell you?" He beckoned the old man closer, then said in a stage whisper, "It's because I'm eeeeeevil!" Severus snorted, and Harry bent his knees and took him by the shoulders, "eeeeeevil!" Harry repeated looking up in his eyes. "An eeeeeevil unnatural freak of a wishard! I killed Shedric and Shirius, and I'd kill them to if only I had my. My. My 'infernal devilish toys'! 'Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live', Sheverus." Harry collapsed to the floor now, and was rocking back and forth crying.

Severus awkwardly patted him on the head twice. "There there," he said. Comfort was definitely _not_ his thing. Where was Minerva? What was keeping her?

Harry was on his feet again, smiling bitterly. "There'sh a good reashon you're not head of Hufflepuff, Sheverus. You people shkills leave a shertain something to be desired."

When in doubt, be angry. It had always served Severus before. "Boy, if you call me Severus again, I'll deliver you to the Headmaster in a matchbox. You will refer to me as Professor Snape, Master Snape, or Sir. Do you understand, boy?"

Harry was still smiling weakly. "Boy. That's what the mugglesh call me. For along time I asshumed it was to remind me I washn't a girl. Now, I think, it is sho you don't have to admit I'm a man." Severus paled. Harry continued, "They hate me, Sheverus. That's why the swear at me, and beat me, and lock me in my room, and make me wear these rags," at this, he grabbed a hold of the front of his shirt, twisted his face in confusion, and looked down.

"I look nice, Sheve-" Harry said incredulously. Realization seemed to dawn, and a silly grin spilt his face. "Sheverus, did you dress me?"

If Severus had been drinking he would have done a spit take. As it was, he made an odd strangling sound. He was torn between laughter and horror. Potter actually asked if he, Severus Snape, had dressed him. With a straight face! Well, with a goofy grin. But seriously.

He was saved the trouble of having to come up with a response by Minerva's sudden arrival. She was levitating Harry's rather small trunk in front of her, and carrying Harry's wand in her other hand. She set down the trunk, and held a business card out to Harry.

"Wossat?" He asked.

"A portkey. You say the keyword, and it will transport you to the Great Hall at Hogwarts. From there, we will be taking you to the hospital wing," Minerva said. Harry took the card. '_Sherbet Lemon'_ was printed on it. "We only have two, so I'll go first, with the trunk, and Severus, you and Harry can follow. _Balderdash!" _With a pop of displaced air she was gone.

After a long, awkward silence, Severus said, "Well?"

"Well what?" Harry said. Severus sighed, and snatched the card from his hand.

"Sherbet Lemon," He said, taking a hold of Harry shoulder. After a sharp, fishhook like tug and brief feeling of falling they arrived in the Great Hall at Hogwarts. Severus, who had been expecting Harry to reel drunkenly, had taken him by both shoulders, and now looked him directly in the eyes.

"Kill the spare," Harry muttered quietly, and looked away. Severus quickly let go, and stepped back.

"What did you say?" he hissed. Harry turned his head and took in the sight of the Hall over the summer. All of the tables were gone, as were the chairs, and the enchanted ceiling was a uniform dark gray, much like the sky above. No candles were anywhere to be seen, but a cold, dawn-like light illuminated the room. _Very morose, _Harry thought.

"I said I feel pretty Sheverus. Don't you feel pretty?" Harry asked and, much to Severus' horror, took the older man by the arms and began to twirl in some twisted facsimile of ballroom dance. "I feel pretty! Oh, sho pretty! I feel pretty and witty and gay!"

Severus, mortified, shoved the boy down to ground. Realizing what he had just done, he grabbed Harry and dragged him back up to his feet. "Stop that infernal singing, boy, we've got to get you to the hospital wing." By the time they reached the end of the room, Harry had managed to shrug him off. Severus was quite glad to let go.

* * *

They walked in hostile silence down the empty halls and long corridors that were Hogwarts in the summertime. Harry wondered why he never thought the thoughts he was thinking before. He wondered why he'd never come to Hogwarts during the summer before. He wondered what Snape was thinking, and why Mad-Eye Moody was hiding under an invisibility cloak, and if he should drink more often, and whether he would be punished. He, gladly, did not think about Sirius at all. Harry giggled, as an idea came to him.

"CONSHTANT VIGILANSHE!" He bellowed, and then collapsed in a fit of laughter. Severus jumped nearly a foot, and began to swear. Moody, however, did not move. "Come on out," Harry said, pulling himself up and looking directly at him, "We can see you." Moody shifted under the cloak, but didn't come out.

"Come along boy," Severus said. "Your drunk."

Moody ducked back into the secret passageway, took off the cloak, and set out for the Headmasters office.


	5. Eventualities

Harry awoke in the Hospital Wing, with the sun streaming in on him. He hadn't had horrifying dreams, for the first time in many weeks, so he had slept through the night. _Maybe they gave me some Dreamless Sleep, _Harry thought, o_r maybe it was the liqu—oh shit! _

The delightful warmth of the sun seemed to melt as the frigid patina of fear settled in. The memories of the night before came back in one long, progressively worse deluge. _Dancing with…Snape!? _If it had been anyone else, Harry would have laughed. He wasn't laughing now, though.

He scanned the room for other people. Madame Pomfrey was in the next room, most likely tending to the other patient he sensed. The person he wanted to see least in the world, however, was right next to him. He scanned for his glasses, and found them on the table next to him. Usually he couldn't sense his own possessions, but his glasses had a faint tinge of foreign magic, from being fixed by Hermione so often. Harry put them on, but didn't open his eyes or sit up. The idea had just occurred to him, too late as always, to pretend to still be asleep.

"Open your eyes, Harry," Snape said quietly. "You can hardly keep pretending now that you've put your glasses on."

_Did Professor Snape just call me Harry? _He thought, as he began to speak. "I am _asleep_," Harry said.

Snape had apparently noticed his lapse as well, because when he next spoke it was harsh. "You are _lying_, Mr. Potter, not sleeping, and while you do both with almost the same frequency, I _insist_ you learn to differentiate. Your behaviour last night was atrocious. You flouted the Decree for the Restriction of Underage Wizardry, Several Hogwart's rules, and the demands of common sense. Albus, of course, will not allow me to expel you, but if you ever attempt something like that during the school year, you will be out of here before you can say 'quidditch'! And if you persist in calling me Severus, Gryffindor will be in the negative points until you graduate!" He was shouting by this point, and had taken Harry by the lapels of the white hospital gown.

_Oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit! _Harry thought. Out loud he hissed, "Unhand me, Severus." Snape looked down at his grasping hands as if for the first time, and quickly released Harry. Then he wiped his hands on his robes, as if he had been holding something distasteful. _Arrogant git, _Harry thought.

_Remind you of anyone? _His terror-voice sneered._ Now's your chance, _another, friendlier voice said. Harry looked up again, and saw Snape was walking away, robes billowing. Harry stood up out of the hospital bed. "Severus Snape," he said quietly. He held out his hand.

Snape whirled around, and glared at Harry. "What do you want, Potter?" he spat, eyeing Harry's hand.

"Shake my hand, Severus," Harry said calmly, "End this petty feud." He continued to hold out his hand. Snape turned on his heel, and walked away. "Remember," Harry shouted after him, "I gave you the chance."

* * *

_I miss Tom. _

_I do not miss Voldemort!_

_Who mentioned Voldemort?_

_Hsss… _

_Parseltongue? Very mature, boy, lapse into another language when you are trapped. _

"Mr. Potter, what are you doing out of bed? It's gone midnight. Do you need something?"

_I need to talk to Dumbledore, I think I've gone mad. I'm in love with Tom Riddle, and I hear voices inside my head._

_Started to accept it then, boy?_

_I was exaggerating to make a point. _

_A murderer and a lair. My my my._

"Well, if you need anything, be sure and call for me."

_You should really wipe your face, boy. She did hand you a handkerchief._

_Why do you bother me?_

_I'm making you strong. If you can't handle your own voices, you'll have no chance against Voldemort._

"To bed, Mr. Potter."

_I thought you liked Voldemort?_

_No. **You** love **Tom**. You must also kill Voldemort. Now get in bed and shut up. Tomorrow, we will begin to become a man._

"Good night, Mr. Potter. Do sleep well."

* * *

When Harry awoke again, he had a blinding headache, and Albus Dumbledore was sitting to his right. He read apprehensive, but not overwhelmingly. Harry was still wearing his glasses. He started speaking before he opened his eyes.

"You always sit by the window. Preparing for a quick escape?"

Dumbledore chuckled. "You always end up in the bed by the window. I could ask you the same thing." The aura of the older man lightened considerably. Harry still didn't open his eyes.

"It's the best one. It has the most padding," Harry said, without think about it. Slight shock radiated from Dumbledore, tempered with amusement.

"You mean to tell me you honestly have a favourite hospital bed, Harry?" he asked gently.

Harry half shrugged, quite a feat laying down, and said "I spend a lot of time here."

Immediately Dumbledore tensed. "Harry, I'm sorry to say that no small amount of that time has been my fault."

Harry remembered something suddenly, and realized something as well.. He remembered he was mad at Dumbledore, and realized Dumbledore blamed himself for at least some portion of what had happened to Harry. "Sir," Harry began, "did you know that I am mad at you?"

Dumbledore inclined his head. "I had some idea, Harry, yes."

Harry nodded. "Sir, I am going to open my eyes now, and when I do I want something to change."

There was a pause, then the older man answered, "If it is in my power, Harry, I shall endeavor to make it happen."

Harry nodded again. In place of the anger or fear he usually felt in this situation, he found a cold, dispassionate resolve. "Very good. Now understand, I like you. You have a wicked sense of humour, and remember what it was like to be a boy. At the moment, I have to say some things that I do not like. I may even go so far as to call you a 'barmy old codger'."

Dumbledore smiled slightly at the memory of his interview with Dobby, "I understand, Harry, but what is your request?"

"I would like you to refer to me as Mr. Potter, as I shall call you Headmaster. I must insist our familiar names, and their friendly connotations be left aside for the moment. If this conversation goes even remotely the way I hope it will, we can be on friendly terms again by the end," Harry said it all slowly, in a measured voice he hadn't previously known.

Dumbledore shifted uncomfortably, and nodded. Harry opened his eyes. "Master Potter, now it is my turn to ask for something. Kindly tell me how you know I nodded when your eyes were closed."

In truth, Harry hadn't known. He had sensed agreement in the man's aura, and had reacted by it. "I will come to that in a minute, Headmaster, when I begin my diatribe. If I may?"

Dumbledore half-smiled again. "You hardly need my permission."

Harry sighed, and started again, "I am mad at you. I realize I said that before, but it bears repeating. I will not scream at you, or attack you like I would Professor Snape, but I will also not placate you like I usually do. First however, we need to clear up some misconceptions. You are not responsible for my injuries."

Dumbledore opened his mouth to protest, but Harry cut him off. "Let me finish. You have not hexed me, nor pushed me from my broom, nor even thrown rocks at me, tempted though you may have been. You are not Voldemort, and are not in his employ. I know about false guilt. I learned about it when I killed Cedric. I got A listed when I killed Sirius. Yet, last night I had a revelation."

Harry paused, to see if Dumbledore would say anything. When he didn't, Harry continued, "Voldemort is winning." This didn't have quite the expected effect. Dumbledore simply continued to stare politely at him. Harry started up again, "Voldemort is winning. As long as we continue to blame ourselves for the things he has done, he has won. As long as we flinch at the mere sound of his name, he will continue to reign. We, most particularly you and I, cannot let him control us that way."

Dumbledore nodded slowly, and his eyes twinkled. Sometime during Harry speech he had conjured a pot of tea, and was now calmly sipping a cup. "If we were all so wise so young, the world would be a better place, Master Potter. Cup of tea?"

Harry tensed, but his voice remained calm. "I'm not done yet, Headmaster. I am tired of you meddling in my affairs. I am not a pawn. I can forgive you for trying to protect me as a child, misguided though your attempts may be. No longer, however, will I allow it. We are past the stage in our lives where disinformation and secrets will do anyone any good. I do not ask that you treat me as an adult, I realize I am still a student and you Headmaster. However, I demand, _demand, _that anything concerning myself and Voldemort not be kept from me. I realize my responsibility to the wizarding world, and I accept it. Can you accept it?"

Dumbledore was silent for a long time. He sipped his tea, and finally, he said, "Master Potter, I understand entirely. I will not apologize for actions I took in good faith in the past, but I will refrain in the future. You say you do not ask me to treat you as an adult, and I'm not sure I agree. However, there is one thing I must still do for you as a child. I must give you a burden, but a happy one, and I am sorry James is not here to do it. Do you fell well?"

Harry smiled. This was going better than he had hoped. Dumbledore had not been angry with him for essentially telling him to piss off, and wanted to treat him as an adult. Not only that, Dumbledore hasn't apologized, saving him the embarrassments and guilt he often felt criticizing people. The only problem was Dumbledore's cryptic last statement and question. He felt well enough to lay here and talk to Dumbledore, certainly, and he didn't have any broken bones. Why would he need to feel well for Dumbledore to give him something?

"Well, sir," Harry joked to hide his confusion, " as long as you don't plan on chasing me around the lake, I am just fine."

Dumbledore smiled slightly, but his voice was firm. "I thought, for the moment, we had lain aside humour, Master Potter?"

Harry frowned, as he sat up. "Please," he said, "call me Harry now that the unpleasantness is out of the way. I don't mean to be distant."

Dumbledore look at him for a minute, and said "Ask me again, in an hour, and I will be delighted. Now however, there is one thing left to be done. Get up and get dressed, I'll be waiting in my office." Dumbledore walked out the hospital wing leaving a confused Harry in his wake.

When Harry arrived at the guardian in front of Dumbledore's office, he realized he didn't know the password. After running through every magical and muggle candy he could think of, and feeling quite foolish Harry gave up. He sat down, and rested his back against the guardian, and closed his eyes. If the Headmaster wanted to see him, he would eventually open it up. Harry resolved to just wait.

Besides, it gave him time to explore his new sense in a magical environment. He could sense _everything. _Knights stood out blue against the royal purple of the castle itself. Somewhere about him, a pearly gray he assumed was a ghost floated around aimlessly. He could sense the overwhelming white of the Headmaster in his office, as well as the rainbow he assumed was Fawkes. The guardian behind him had a soft green a lot like Hermione's. He focused on the guardian, willing it to move.

_Hey! _Said a voice inside his head, _What do you think you're doing_

"I need to speak to the headmaster," Harry said aloud.

_No entrance without the password! _Said the low, growling voice.

"But he's expecting me," Harry replied.

_No entrance without the password! _Said the voice again.

"Ask him!" Harry shouted, then immediately felt foolish. He was shouting at a statue.

_No entrance without the password! _The infernal voice repeated.

A thought occurred to Harry. This guardian wasn't really intelligent, it was just charmed. It was behaving in a manner consistent with it's programming. "Can you tell me the password?" Harry asked.

_The password cannot be revealed with the code word, _the voice informed him.

"I see," said Harry, "So you can't let me in, and you can't tell me the password. If I tell you the password, can you tell me the code word?"

_Yes._

"Well," Harry said, hoping this would work, "What was the last thing you heard someone – not myself – say?"

There was a silence, as if the statue were considering it. _Blood Lollipops._

Harry chuckled. Of course he hadn't thought of Blood Lollipops. He was slightly disturbed by how easy it was to get around the charmed guardian, but he didn't know if anyone else could talk to it like he could. Maybe others had to use a spell. He shrugged, and stood up, facing the guardian.

"Blood Lollipops. Now, tell me the code word," He said. _Veritas, _He heard, and the gargoyle stepped out of the way. Harry stepped onto the revolving staircase, and waited. When he arrived at Dumbledore's door, he didn't bother to knock.

"Master Potter, you never fail to amaze me. It's good to see you made it. Especially considering I neglected to give you the password." Dumbledore's eye twinkled. Harry had the decency to look embarrassed, though not much. "Well, Master Potter, are you ready to receive your inheritance?" 


End file.
